


Face Down

by kitsunechikyu



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bisexual Malia, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Chaptered, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Isaac Lahey Feels, Lydia and Stiles are close, M/M, Pack Cuddles, Panic Attacks, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, Slow Burn, Stiles and Isaac are sassy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-15 21:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3462059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsunechikyu/pseuds/kitsunechikyu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One's an incident, two's a coincident, three's a pattern.</p><p>Stiles knows this motto better than anyone; his father taught it to him. He just didn't expect that same man to end up becoming a part of said philosophy. He's lost count of how many times the Sheriff has hit him now, and he's given up trying. Maybe he deserves it. After all, it was Allison's death that caused his dad's relapse, and everyone knows, even if they won't say it out loud, that her murder was his fault. </p><p>A certain curly haired werewolf disagrees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cover Up With Makeup in the Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Teen Wolf belongs to Jeff Davis and all the other writers. It is not mine. This is fiction, not the actual plot line of the television show. (Some OC's are in this story as well). Throughout the fic, I refer to Sheriff Stilinski as John. I can't remember whether or not this is his actual name, but I've seen it used in other works, so I'm just gonna stick with it. Also, be warned, there is some violence as well male/male and female/female in this story, so if you're not into that, then this ain't the fanfic fo' you. Okie doks? Enjoy! ^.^

Stiles had never doubted his father's love for him.

 

Not ever.

 

No matter how mad he got, Sheriff Stilinski had always been a caring, attentive parent, who was willing to give up anything and everything for his son. That being said, the man had had to put up with a lot. He was the single dad of a hyperactive kid and had the responsibility of protecting an entire town from not only humans, but also the supernatural, weighing on his shoulders. It was difficult, so when the Sheriff had hit his son for the first time, the seventeen year old hadn't blamed him.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

It was the day of Allison's funeral. The entirety of the McCall pack was present, with the exception of Malia, who hadn't been invited. Mr. Argent insisted on it being a small service with limited guests, favoring the group of friends over a crowd of townspeople. He didn't want a repeat of Kate's ceremony, with reporters and nosy neighbors trying to catch a glimpse of the procession; he wanted it to be private.

 

The weather was miserable. Rain fell in heavy sheets, smashing against the sea of umbrella's that were shielding the event's attendees. Stiles stood at the very edge of the unit looking around at the faces of his friends. He felt uncomfortable, like he didn't belong among the group of super teens. It wasn't a new sensation, in fact it was a something he experienced quite frequently, but it seemed all the more prominent in his present situation. His mind, which was usually hyper aware, seemed distant and he could feel an unknown force pulling at his conscious. The same thoughts kept nagging at him, making it hard to concentrate.

 

“ _It's your fault_ ,” his mind repeated for the thousandth time, _“You killed her, you let the nogitsune in. You're responsible for their pain.”_

 

Stiles looked up at the mourners through long, watery lashes, his eyes flitting back and forth between each figure. Chris stood nearest to the grave, his expression blank, an emotionless mask protecting him from his own vulnerability. How he was managing to keep it together was a true mystery. He'd lost his sister, his wife, his father, and now his daughter, yet here he was putting on a brave face for a bunch of kids.

 

Scott lay to Argent's right, holding a bouquet of roses in one palm and Kira's hand tightly in the other. He wasn't doing nearly as good of a job at hiding his grief as the elder man, though you could tell he was trying. It was the shaking of his shoulders that gave the act away.

 

Stiles tore his gaze away from his best friend, feeling the pit of despair in his stomach growing. He couldn't imagine what he was going through. Allison had been Scott's first love, and though the two had broken up and tried seeing other people, the bond that they'd shared was irreplaceable. He might not ever truly get over her death and that made Stiles' heart hurt.

 

The pale boy shook his head and transferred his stare to Lydia. She was sobbing, her strawberry blonde locks tucked up into a tight bun, giving a full view of the big, sloppy tears that were streaming down her cheeks. Her ruby lips were pulled into a tight line in an effort to keep her cries at bay, but it didn't seem to be doing her any good. Despite everything, she was still beautiful, almost enchanting, in a heartbreaking sort of way. Stiles felt tears of his own prickling at the back of his throat. He turned his eyes downward, seeking comfort in the details of the muddy ground.

 

When the pastor finished his sermon, Stiles retreated to the parking lot without a word. He didn't notice the fact that he'd dropped his umbrella, he didn't notice the sharp sting of the rain against his face, and he most definitely did not notice the worried glance that Isaac Lahey sent him as he rushed away. He just climbed into his jeep and sat there numbly, willing himself not to break down. _“You killed her,”_ said his brain again.

 

He put the car into gear.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Stiles arrived at his house, it was nearly eight pm. He had driven around for hours trying to clear his mind, but to no avail. He was still reeling from the service and it didn't seem like the delirium was going to end any time soon.

 

The teen had barely stepped through the door when the smell of alcohol hit him. It was a pungent, sour odour that clogged up his nostrils and had him gasping for breath within seconds. It was not a good sign. Cautiously, Stiles walked into his kitchen, bracing himself for whatever disaster he was about to find.

 

Sheriff Stilinski sat slumped in one of the dining room chairs, a bottle of beer, similar to the numerous empty ones that lay strewn across the counters, poised in his hand. His blue eyes were glazed over with stupor, suggesting that he had been at it for a while. A lump formed in Stiles throat as he took in the scene.

 

“Where you been?” croaked his father, glancing upwards.

 

Stiles fidgeted. He wasn't sure why he was so nervous. He'd dealt with this situation before. His dad had had some rough nights in the past, especially after his mom had died. It'd been a long time since the last one, but it still wasn't anything new. Besides, John would never hurt him... would he?

 

“I needed some time to think. By myself. I just... I went for a drive,” the boy explained.

 

The Sheriff grunted in reply and took a swig of his drink, causing Stiles to lurch forward in objection.

 

“Dad, I think that's enough.”

 

The elder Stilinski looked at him quizzically.

 

“I'm fine,” he said.

 

The teen thought about leaving the older man alone, about letting the storm pass without incident, but he couldn't bring himself let the issue go. He hated seeing his old man like this and didn't want him to rot his liver away, so he pushed on.

 

“Dad, have you been drinking since I left?”

 

“Why does it matter?”

 

“It matters because, if you've managed to consume this much alcohol in such a short amount of time, alcohol poisoning isn't gonna be far behind.”

 

“I can hold m' liquor, Stiles.”

 

“Clearly.”

 

“Don' be actin' all snippy with me mister.”

 

Sheriff Stilinski stood up from his position at the table and stumbled towards his son. Stiles moved to catch his parent, but the adult held up a hand in protest.

 

“Dad, you can barely stand up!” the teen cried in exasperation.

 

“Jus' leave me 'lone. Havin' a rough time,” his father slurred.

 

“Yeah, you and me both, but you don't see me going and getting drunk off my ass.”

 

“Shuddup Stiles.”

 

“I get that you're still coming to terms with the whole supernatural thing and that you feel bad about Allison, but you can't do this to yourself!”

 

“Shuddup Stiles!”

 

“Do you really think Mom would-”

 

Stiles was cut off by the impact of his father's fist against his jaw. The sure force of the blow, mixed with the boy's lack of preparedness, was enough to send him tumbling backwards onto the ground with a loud _thud_. John stared down at his child in shock, opening and closing his mouth as he searched for words that could justify what he had done. Stiles sat with his eyes trained on the floor, waiting for another hit; none came. Minutes passed before either of them spoke.

 

“It's okay Dad,” started Stiles, his voice cracking.

 

The intoxicated grownup shook his head in disbelief.

 

“No. No. It's not,” he chocked.

 

Stiles pushed himself up off the ground and gingerly put his hands on his father's arms. He could already feel the bruise starting to form on his cheek. He wanted to run, to cry, to scream, but the sight of the shaken police officer in front of him kept his feet rooted to the spot. His father needed him, which meant that the pain could wait.

 

“Dad, look at me. It's okay. I'm okay,” he lied.

 

Sheriff Stilinski gazed into his son's golden brown eyes and huffed out another 'Sorry', before allowing himself to be lead up to bed.

 

That was the first time it happened, but it wasn't the last. The weeks that followed paved the way for months of the same destructive behavior, only eventually, the Sheriff stopped apologizing.


	2. I See What's Going Down

6 months later

Stiles woke up screaming, his shirt soaked with sweat and his legs tangled in a mess of blue bedsheets. He looked round desperately, trying to get his bearings. The night terror had been dreadful this time. He had been back in the basement of Eichen House, his foot stuck in that stupid bear trap, watching the nogistune circle him like a vulture waiting to feed. He had begged and pleaded for it to let him go, but the fox had simply laughed at the boy before eating him alive.

 

It was a dream he'd had many times before. It always ended the same way, with him helpless and alone, being killed by his own demons. He had it so frequently that it had almost become a routine to start the morning off in a panic. One minute he'd be in the middle of his worst nightmare, and the next he'd be sitting on his bed, listening to his alarm clock blasting out its angry wake up call. It was an occurrence that he had yet to grow accustomed to, despite the fact that it happened multiple times a week.

 

_It felt so real._

Stiles drew in a deep breath, coming back to reality, before sitting up and putting his bare feet onto the floor. Almost immediately, his left shoulder screamed in protest. The previous night had been rough. He'd come home late to a wasted and angry John, which wasn't really surprising since, that too, had become very regular. He had known the beating was coming, it'd been evident by the look on his father's face, but he hadn't expected it to be as brutal as it turned out to be. The older man had shoved him into the corner of the coffee table before taking off his shoe and smacking his son repeatedly with it. Stiles had scarcely made it up the stairs before he had passed out from exhaustion.

 

The teen sighed. _School, Stiles. Just get to school._

 

He padded into the bathroom to asses the damage, making sure to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake his father. Flicking on the light, he turned to peek at his reflection. He looked like a ghost. His face was gaunt, his eyes dead, and his t-shirt, which had fit him snugly only a year ago, now hung off his pale limbs. Stiles' entire appearance was lacking pigment, save one bright, plum colored bruise that stretched the length of his cheekbone. Usually his dad didn't go for the face, but even he slipped up occasionally.

 

The boy bit his lip anxiously. The cover up that he had purchased was almost gone, a testament to just how frequently he got to experience his father's handy work, and there was no way he was getting more before first period class started.

 

_I could skip,_ he thought.

 

No, that would just get him into more trouble later, which ultimately wasn't worth it. He didn't really want to have to make up another lame excuse, people will only believe “I ran into a door,” so many times before they get suspicious, but it was looking like he wasn't going to have much of a choice. Reluctantly, he applied the gooey substance onto his skin, pressing as gently as possible on the tender spot. When he finished he pulled back and studied his face. The colour was still visible, but much more subdued, leaving the flesh a light violet instead of the darker shade it had previously held.

 

“It'll have to do,” Stiles huffed, throwing out the now empty bottle.

 

He made his way back into his room, throwing on a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt, along with his signature flannel. He knew that it was 100 degrees out, but he didn't really care. Long sleeves were perfect for hiding scars and blemishes from unwanted inspection, so he'd force himself to deal with the heat as long as it kept him from being found out.

 

Stiles grabbed his bag and headed downstairs. He was just about to open the front door when his phone began to sing out the Star Wars theme song. It was Scott's personal ring-tone.

 

“Scotty!” he said when he finally managed to dig his cell out of his pocket.

 

“Hey, man!” Scott replied, sounding as cheerful as ever, “How are you?”

 

“Fine,” Stiles lied. “What's up?”

 

“You coming to school today?”

 

“Uh, yeah. Just about to head out. Why?”

 

There was a short silence on the other end of the phone, almost as if Scott were debating on whether or not he should answer his best friend's question.

 

“Um, well, Kira and I were kinda planning on skipping class today, and we were wondering if maybe you could-”

 

“If I could cover for you guys,” Stiles cut him off with a sigh. He should have guessed as much.

 

“Yeah,” Scott said sheepishly. “You totally don't have to dude, we could just-”

 

“No. No. It's fine.” Stiles said shaking his head. “You two crazy kids have fun. Use protection.”

 

“Thanks bro! You're the best,” the werewolf exclaimed before hanging up.

 

_Yup. I'm the best,_ Stiles thought, rolling his eyes.

 

He was happy for Scott, really he was. The guy deserved to have fun more than anyone else he knew and Kira was a great person. It was just that every time the Alpha got a girlfriend, it seemed like “best buddy” duty got put on the back burner. The whiskey eyed boy understood that it wasn't done on purpose or with malicious intent, but that didn't make the lack of attention hurt any less.

 

Stiles huffed in annoyance, shoved his phone back into his jeans and headed out to his jeep. It looked like he'd be spending the day alone, yet again. He checked the time absentmindedly and swore when he realized that he was already ten minutes late. Revving up the engine, he back out of his driveway and sped off towards the high school.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Stiles arrived, it was nearly the end of first period. He'd run into construction on the way over and had had to take a completely different route, which resulted in him having to drive round in circles for a good fifteen minutes to avoid traffic.

 

“What the hell is wrong with this town?” he grumbled as he slammed the driver's side door.

 

He assumed that Coach would be angry with him for being tardy and wasn't wrong. The man had a fit and started ripping him apart in front of the entire economics class.

 

“You know why it's called an essential course Stilinski? Because it's essential that you show up! I should give you detention, but I don't wanna waste my time watching you after school,” he yelled, after Stiles had tried to slip in unnoticed.

 

The boy didn't say anything, just clenched his teeth and looked away from the amused faces of his school mates that regarded him with interest as he was reprimanded.

 

“Just, take a seat,” Coach finished, waving his hand.

 

Stiles headed for the back of the room, his cheeks pink with embarrassment. This was not the way he had wanted to start his day. He heard a few snickers as he passed through the rows of desks, but everyone avoided eye contact with him, save Lydia who cast him a sympathetic glance. She smiled at him gently and gave him a little wave in an attempt to cheer him up. It didn't work, but the thought was appreciated.

 

Finally, Stiles settled into the only available seat, which was next to Isaac. The curly haired werewolf had his headphones in and was looking out the window with a detached demeanour. He didn't seem to be paying attention to anything that was going on, including the spat that had just happened at the front of the classroom. Of course he get's away with misbehaving, thought Stiles bitterly. Despite being over six feet tall, Isaac could be practically invisible when he wanted to be. You wouldn't even know he was here if it wasn't for the space he was filling. It was truly a talent.

 

Stiles tried his best to focus on the lesson, but his bones ached. Every time he moved the bruises hiding under his shirt screamed out in pain. It hurt to breathe, so much so that at times he thought he might pass out from lack of oxygen. Nobody seemed to notice, or if they did, they didn't comment on it, which was somewhat of a relief, but not enough to keep Stiles' nerves from teetering on the edge of panic. It wasn't until Lydia was standing over him, worry plastered across her beautiful face, that he realized the bell had rung.

 

“Stiles,” she said, her tone urgent.

 

 

“Huh?” he asked.

 

“What's wrong? You look like you're about to faint.”

 

“I-I'm fine.”

 

Lydia didn't look anywhere close to convinced. She tried to place a delicate hand on Stiles' shoulder, but drew back when he flinched. Concern flashed in her green eyes.

“Stiles. What is it?” she whispered.

 

He couldn't look at her. She knew him too well; her voice would pull the truth out of him. He'd slip up, he'd tell her and then he'd be screwed. Stiles stood up from the desk and grabbed his bag, backing away from his friend with hands raised.

 

“It's nothing, Lyds. Don't worry about it. I'm just hungry is all. I missed breakfast and it's making me a little light headed,” he laughed. It wasn't genuine, but he hoped it would do the job. Lydia tried to speak, but he rushed out of the room before she had time to ask anymore questions. He was so frantic in his escape that he didn't see the giant body walking in the opposite direction. The two collided, flinging the already injured teen to the ground. He landed flat on his back, causing him to cry out in pain.

 

“Oh shit. Stiles, are you alright?” a familiar voice asked.

 

Stiles pushed himself up onto his elbows to see Isaac's guilty face peeking out from under a mop of blond bangs. Books lay scattered around the two, papers now in the air and under foot, but the werewolf didn't really seem to care. His expression was apologetic, yet his body was tense and he looked like he wanted to bolt. The younger Stilinski growled in frustration. Why was Lahey always getting in the way? And more importantly, why was he pretending to actually give a crap about what happened to him? Both of them had always acted like they hated each others guts.

 

“Really Lahey? Can't you watch where you're going?” Stiles spat.

 

Isaac scowled, all friendliness vanishing from his stance.

 

“You ran into me Stilinski,” he grunted, standing up.

 

“Screw you.”

 

Stiles grabbed his school work off the ground and glared up at the fair-haired boy. Neither male moved for a long time, they just stood in aggravated silence, waiting for one of them to either start something, or walk away. Isaac was the one who broke first.

 

“Whatever,” he snorted, popping an ear phone back in. “Just stay out of the way.”

 

He started to turn, but stopped when he caught sight of the purplish blotch staining the brunette's cheek. Something like recognition passed over his face, and his blue eyes became wide. Stiles felt his heart leap into his throat. Without another word, he pushed past the taller man and walked out of the school.

 

“Damn it,” he said aloud.

 

He needed to get away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“What's up with you?” Scott asked his best friend as they sat at the kitchen table.

 

Stiles had barely said a word since he showed up at the McCall residence an hour previous. It was their weekly gaming night, a tradition that the two had kept up since they were ten, and they were supposed to be having the time of their lives. They were supposed to be filling the house with laughter and really bad fart jokes, but no matter how hard he tried, the Alpha couldn't seem to get even a chuckle out of the pale boy sitting across from him. He hoped that it wasn't the result of ditching him earlier, but he had really wanted to take Kira out on a real date. Whatever the reason, Stiles was completely out of sorts, and it was putting Scott into a state of confusion.

 

“Is this about earlier?” he pushed. His companion glanced up at him and shook his head.

 

“No dude. Seriously, I'm fine. Just tired,” he said with a forced smile.

 

“It's only four. How are you tired?”

 

“Dunno, just am.”

 

Stiles rubbed the back of his neck, a tell tale sign of his discomfort. He hated lying to Scott. They were supposed to tell each other everything, but his father's tendencies were one of those things that no-one could know about, not even his puppy-dog-eyed best friend. Even though he wished his dad would cease with the beatings, he couldn't bring himself to call the authorities. John had worked his entire life to get where he was, spent so much time alone in order to raise his son, and no matter how much it hurt, the seventeen year old would rather have the shit kicked out of him than let his father go to jail and lose everything.

 

The sound of the front door shutting snapped Stiles out of his thoughts. He shifted round in his seat to see Isaac taking off his coat in the front hallway. He groaned internally. Sometimes he forgot that the teen was still living here.

 

“Hey, Isaac,” Scott said, grinning.

 

That was the other thing about the Beta that Stiles couldn't stand. He and Scott were technically foster brothers, and it made him feel threatened, whether he liked to admit it or not. Secretly, he was afraid that he might be replaced by the lanky blond, which made it really hard to like the guy.

 

“Hey,” Isaac replied, his voice quiet and shaky.

 

For some reason he looked as if he'd been crying, his eyes all red rimmed and watery. His confident attitude from earlier was gone, leaving a introverted version of the once strong wolf in its wake. Stiles quirked an eyebrow at Scott in silent questioning and cleared his throat. The other simply shrugged his shoulders in response.

 

The room's quiet was interrupted when “Baby Hit Me One More Time” blasted out of a cell phone laying on the table. Scott flailed in surprise and scrambled for the mobile, his face turning red. His eyes flicked between the two quizzical gazes of his brothers as he pushed the answer button.

 

“Hi, Deaton. What? Now? But... Agh, okay. Yeah. Alright, bye.” He sighed deeply, getting up from his chair. “I gotta go to work. Emergency at the animal clinic,” he said. “I'm sorry Stiles, looks like we'll have to postpone.”

 

The human started to protest, but decided against it, he didn't have the energy.

 

“It's fine. Duty calls. Gotta go save those cats or whatever,” he said, forcing a laugh.

 

Scott gave him an appreciative smile and clapped him on the shoulder, causing Stiles to wince involuntarily.

 

"Woah, bro. You good?" the werewolf asked.

 

“I'm fine. I just had a spill today at school. It's nothing serious,” Stiles reassured him.

 

It was a partial truth. The incident with Isaac hadn't exactly improved his physically state. In fact, if it weren't for the double dosage of pain meds he'd taken on the drive over, he would probably be writhing in pain on the floor; but Scott didn't need to know that. He had other things to focus on, like training his new betas and having a normal relationship with Kira. Stiles didn't want to ruin that with his problems.

 

The teen looked up at his friend and flashed him a reassuring grin, hoping to move away from the subject. At first, the other male didn't look convinced, but eventually his face melted into a softer expression and he nodded his head in understanding. Seconds later, he was whisking out the door in a rush of goodbyes and promises to make up for the inconvenience. As soon as he was gone, the room fell into an eerie silence.

 

Stiles glanced at Isaac who was standing in the same spot as before. The blond was stock still and looked as if he might be sick. His hands were balled up into fists, nails digging deep into his skin, and his blue eyes were coated with an unreadable emotion. Stiles' could feel panic swirling in his stomach. What was wrong with him? Did he somehow manage to contract some form of werewolf flu, or was he just being weird?

 

“You okay man?” Stiles asked, standing up from his chair.

Isaac looked at him and blinked, almost as if he had forgotten that the other boy was there. He licked his lips, a motion which caused the younger Stilinski's heart to jump, and crossed his arms over his chest. Stiles huffed in flustered annoyance.

 

“Dude, seriously. You're freaking me ou-”

 

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

Isaac cut him off abruptly, taking a step closer. He looked as if he wanted to curl in on himself. The last time Stiles had seen the wolf like this was at that creepy hotel during the incident with Jennifer. He'd been under a bed, sweating and delusional, with no sense of what was going on. The brunet had had to snap him out of it by throwing a flare in his face. It was one of the only times where he had truly felt bad for the guy.

 

“I'm sorry I hurt you,” Isaac continued.

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

Hurt him? When had he hurt him? _Oh._ Now Stiles understood. Isaac thought that he had injured him during their altercation. _Of course he does you idiot,_ he mentally chastised himself. _You just gave that to Scott as an excuse for why you were sore._

 

“Isaac, it's fine. It doesn't hurt that bad,” Stiles said.

 

“Yeah, but it still hurts right?”

 

“It's no big deal. Honestly.”

 

“If it's no big deal then why did you cringe?”

 

“Just let it go, Isaac.”

 

“Why are you trying to make it seem so insignificant when you are obviously in pain?”

 

“Let it go, Lahey.”

 

“Stiles-”

 

“I said let it go!”

 

Isaac flinched at the sharp rise in the teen's tone, but didn't move. Neither one said anything for a moment, but instead looked at each other with furious intensity.

 

“Okay,” Isaac finally whispered, scrubbing at his eyes with his palms.

 

He turned sharply and stomped upstairs to his room, slamming the door behind him.

 

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration and grabbed his keys off the table. Why did Isaac feel the need to push the issue so much? Why did he even care? This was the second time today that he'd acted like a decent human being and it was making his blood boil. This stupid, curly haired kid, the same kid who had once threatened to kill Lydia, and who was a constant source of negativity, was trying to poke holes in his facade. The worst part was that it was working. Isaac Lahey was getting under his skin and that was the last thing that Stiles wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that the ending is a bit crap. I wasn't sure how to finish off this chapter and so my wording got all messy. I hope you still enjoy it. Malia will be making an appearance next chapter, so stay tuned :) Also, thanks a lot for all the kudos!


	3. One Look Puts the Rhythm in My Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,
> 
> I'm so sorry it took me so long to update, but school has been crazy lately. We just had mid-terms, so I've be absolutely swamped with assignments and haven't had any time to write anything that hasn't been essay related. I hope this chapter is okay. I read it through a few times, and I thinks it's alright, but I've done most of the writing at like 2-3 AM so, it might not be as great. I don't know. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy! Thanks again for reading :)  
> (Also, I only corrected grammar the morning after I posted this, so hopefully it's better now).

Chapter 3

*The following week - tuesday*

 

“This place is a mess,” Malia stated as she maneuvered through the sea of dirty laundry laying on Stiles' floor.

It looked like a hurricane had ripped through the area. Every inch of the blue bedroom was covered in some sort of trash or item of clothing. Books lay strewn across the desk, dishes were stacked up on the bedside table and the string that had once connected murder cases on the wall was now tangled up in a corner with numerous cell phone charger cables. It was a disaster.

Stiles sighed. He had meant to clean it, had even planned to do a huge sweep of the whole house, but stuff just kept getting in the way. He never had enough energy to do productive things anymore, what with school and the supernatural constantly taking up his time, not to mention all the effort he expended attempting to keep his dad's actions a secret. The boy shook his head in an attempt to clear the thoughts from his mind. He didn't want to focus on the negative right now; it wouldn't do him any good.

His eyes flicked towards the coyote, who was picking up a shirt and holding it out like it might bite her. Stiles chuckled despite himself. He found it odd that the girl who spent most of her life sleeping outside had such a large issue with slightly used fabric. He walked over and took the offending item out of her hand, throwing it into his closet. Malia glanced around again in mild horror, before plopping down onto the bed and sitting with her legs crisscrossed. Once she was settled, she pointed at the structure of china bowls on the table next to her, which was on the verge of tipping and smashing into a thousand pieces.

“It looks like the leaning tower of Pizza,” she said, looking very pleased with herself.

She'd been studying famous architecture in school and had been ridiculously excited when she 'd found out there was one named after her favorite food.

“It's Pisa, Mal. Not pizza,” Stiles told her.

He watched as Malia's face fell a bit and she put her hands in her lap. He hadn't meant to make her sad. It was true that she often got things wrong, but she was still a fast learner, and she had come a long way in a very short period of time.

“Oh,” she muttered.

Stiles pushed away a sweater and sat down beside her, patting her knee in reassurance.

“It's okay. You almost got it,” he said.

The two of them had become very close following the death of the nogitsune. Malia's father had enrolled her in school only a few weeks after they'd buried Allison and naturally she'd gravitated towards Scott and the pack, seeing as they were the only people she knew. Well, that and the fact that she and Stiles had had sex in the basement of a mental institution. That kind of thing tended to connect you to a person. They'd tried dating for a while, but ultimately the romance had fizzled out. It hadn't been awful, quite the opposite actually. The couple had experienced lots of nice moments, it was just that, at the time, neither one was really cut out for a relationship. Malia had been on the cusp of transitioning back into the human world and Stiles had only just regained his sanity; not the ideal situation for building trust and communication. In the end, they'd finished on good terms and had managed to keep a strong bond, which was something both teens were eternally grateful for.

The coyote smiled at her friend and unfolded herself so that she could lay down on her back. A happy mumble escaped her mouth as she stretched out her limbs, making her sound and look like a feline of some sort. When she'd finished, she blinked sleepily up at Stiles.

“I met someone. Did I tell you?” she said through a yawn.

“Like a boy?”

“Yeah. Well, no. Kinda. She's a girl, but I meant it in the same way you're thinking.”

“I didn't know you liked girls.” Malia shrugged, closing her eyes.

“Well, I do,” she said. “And I like this one a lot.”

Stiles stared at the girl laying on his bed. She talked about important subjects as if they were as commonplace as asking the time. She'd basically just come out to him, which wasn't a problem, Stiles himself was bisexual and God knows he understood what wanting to tell your friends about it was like, but she was acting so nonchalant about the whole thing. When he'd finally admitted it to Scott, he'd been absolutely terrified that the wolf was going to reject him. Of course, he hadn't. It was Scott McCall after all, the guy was as close to perfect as a mortal could get, but Stiles had still nearly shit his pants in the moment. _Maybe that's just because you're a coward,_ his mind whispered. He swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the sudden pang of self-loathing that had crawled into his chest.

Malia must have sensed the change in his scent because she rolled closer to him and gave him a knowing look.

“What's wrong with you?” she asked.

Stiles shrugged and gave her a tight lipped smile.

“Nothing.”

“But-”

“It's alright. Please, I don't wanna talk about it,” he said, rubbing a thin hand over his face.

Part of him wanted to be glad that his friends had actually noticed that something was up, there had been times in the past where it'd seemed like no one cared at all, but the other part of him just wanted to tell everyone to fuck off and leave him alone. They were making things too complicated.

“So, what's this girl's name?” Stiles questioned, moving the subject away from his problems.

The were coyote's eyes brightened, and she seemed to instantaneously forget whatever worry she had been harboring for her companion.

“Knox,” she said, propping herself up on her elbows.

“Knox? That's a weird name, don't you think?”

“Your name is Stiles.”

“My real name's even weirder.”

“That just proves my point.”

Malia let out a playful growl and moved so that she was situated with her head resting on Stiles' lap. He didn't object, he knew better than to deny her what she wanted, but he did have to restrain himself from wincing as the girl plopped her skull down onto a particularly sore bruise. This time, Malia didn't seem to pick up on his discomfort and Stiles decided that it was probably better off that way. He didn't want to try and come up with any more excuses. So, instead of complaining, he sifted his fingers through the coyote's hair, smoothing over the numerous blonde strands that had fallen into her face.

“So what about you?” she asked, tipping her face upward.

Stiles blinked in confusion.

“What about me?” he asked.

“Is there anyone you like?”

“Uh.”

The teen scrunched up his face. If he was being honest, he hadn't really put much thought into a trying for a new relationship, it wasn't really his top priority. Besides, he figured it would be too hard. It was already enough of a struggle hiding his situation from Scott and the pack, so the idea of trying to conceal it from someone with whom he was being intimate, made him feel somewhat sick to his stomach. No, it was better for him to stay alone, at least for the moment.

Stiles let out a sigh and twirled a piece of Malia's hair around his thumb. The girl was still looking at him expectantly, though by the facial expression she was sporting, it was obvious she was losing patience.

“Uh, what, Stiles?” she huffed.

“Uh, not really. No. There isn't anyone I'm interested in.”

The blonde narrowed her eyes and clucked her tongue lightly, as if to say that she didn't believe him.

“I find that highly unlikely Stilinski,” she stated. “You were too much of an animal in bed to put up with being lonely for more than a little while.”

Stiles let out a sound similar to that of a dying cat and flushed bright red. The way she said it made it sound like he was some sort of sexual fiend, which he most certainly was _not_. _She_ was the one that liked to scratch. So what if he hadn't complained. Sex was nice. It was really, really nice, and he had really enjoyed it with her. That wasn't a crime, was it? He stood up from his bed rapidly, ignoring the sound of annoyance that Malia made as her head was unceremoniously dropped onto the mattress. Stomping over to his closet, he flung open the door and began digging through the towering mountain of clothes and Nerf guns that he had shoved into it during his last sleep over with Scott. Finally, after a few minutes of searching, the boy let out a cry of success, and turned to hold out a t-shirt littered with claw-like rips.

The were-coyote stared at it, unamused

“What's that?” she asked.

Stiles pointed an accusatory finger at the object.

“This, Mal, is one of the four shirts that you ruined during our relationship, because you turned into an _actua_ l animal in bed,” he said, still blushing furiously.

Immediately Malia went silent, and for a moment the younger Stilinski regretted bringing out the garment. It wasn't her fault that she hadn't been in complete control all the time, and he shouldn't have brought it up just to defend his stupid pride. However, seconds later, the silence turned into a giggle, then a chuckle, and eventually into a full blown fit of laughter. Stiles glared at the she-wolf as he slowly began to realize that she was making fun of him. He threw the tattered remains of his shirt to the side and rolled his amber eyes as he watched Malia clutch her stomach in glee.

“Your face, Stiles,” she breathed out.

She glanced up at him and smiled so genuinely that the pouting male couldn't help but grin back.

“Look I just mean that I'm surprised, that's all,” Malia said after she calmed down. “I figured you'd probably be into someone by now. We've been broken up for like, four months.”

“Well, maybe you just move on quicker than I do,” Stiles countered.

“Uh huh. So, you're telling me that there is no one that you find attractive. No one at all?”

Well, of course he found people attractive, but that didn't mean he wanted to date them.

He'd always thought that Scott was handsome. In fact, he had been his first crush, though he'd never in a million years reveal that to the alpha; it was far too embarrassing. Danny was also cute, but he was pretty sure that the guy thought he was super weird, which Stiles' supposed wasn't really incorrect, and then of course Lydia was still on his list of beautiful people, though again, she wasn't really an option. The two of them had grown too close to ever try being together; they didn't want to wreck their friendship.

 _Don't forget Isaac,_ Stiles' mind supplied.

Oh God, Isaac. There was no denying that the fair-haired were-wolf was good looking, what with his golden curls and bright blue eyes, not to mention the chiseled six pack that he kept beneath his slightly too tight shirts. He was practically an angel, a hot, sexy angel, with a nice smile and long legs. But he was also still a dick, one who had never been anything but snarky towards the mole covered boy and Stiles didn't do jerks, so he couldn't have feelings for him. Right?

Except, he had been awfully nice the other night, apologetic and almost sweet. He'd shown off a much more vulnerable side to him, which was kind of refreshing and had really tugged on the adolescent's heartstrings. 

The teen's stomach flipped in unknown anxiety. _Stupid fur-ball,_ Stiles thought angrily. _You're not even here and you're still bugging me._

He glanced back at Malia and what he saw made him smile. She'd fallen asleep waiting for a response and, as a result, had her legs hanging haphazardly off the edge of the bed. She was snoring, loudly enough to make one of the bowls on the side table shake, and the brunet was pretty sure he saw drool trickling down her tanned cheek.

He walked over and pulled his comforter around the snoozing coyote's shoulders, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead when he was done. He guessed that she had the right to be tired, seeing as it was almost seven o' clock, and the sun had already begun to set. Through the window, the sky shone in a dimming canvas of yellows, reds and pinks. The moon too, which was only one cycle away from being full, glistened in the fading light. It was peaceful, an atmosphere that very seldom seemed to make an appearance in Stiles' life anymore, and he wanted to revel in it, even if it was only for a little while. He knew nothing like this lasted, that fact was evident by the still healing bruises that were scattered across his broken body, but it didn't matter; he liked to enjoy small instances where he could forget that his life was constantly in danger, or that he had killed one of his closest friends in battle. It was times like these where he could pretend to be a normal kid.

Stiles yawned and laid down next to Malia, who mumbled in her sleep, but scooted over to make room for his lanky frame. He snuggled in, letting her spoon him like they had done when the two had dated, and slowly closed his eyes, drifting off, though unwillingly, to thoughts of blonde boys with pretty eyes.


	4. As Your Lies Crumble Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry it's been so long. I lost inspiration for this fic for a while and have been struggling to get it back. I've been working on this chapter for the better part of a year. I hope you like it.

Chapter Four:

When Stiles woke the following morning, it was to a cold and empty bed. His window was open, evidence that Malia had indeed taken that route of escape during the night, and was letting in an onslaught of cool air mixed with rainwater. It wasn’t unusual for the were-coyote to be gone when he got up, but it was always slightly unsettling. It made Stiles question whether or not he had dreamed a person laying next to him. Last time that’d happened, he’d ended up in the school with the Nemeton’s roots wrapped around his wrist. He’d rather not relive that.

Sighing, he stretched out his sleep-stiff limbs and climbed off of his mattress. The clock on his side-table read 6:00 am, which left two hours until school started, plenty of time to worry about the fact that he hadn’t finished his history essay for Mr. Yukimura’s class. Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose and cursed himself for dozing off so early. He could try to bullshit another couple paragraphs before first period started, but his brain might still be too bogged down with morning drowsiness for it to be good bullshit. What he really needed was caffeine, preferably of the hot, brown, vanilla flavoured variety. Unfortunately, that meant he would have to go downstairs, where his dad would most likely be getting ready for his shift. 

The two men had a rather uneasy truce during the early hours. Stiles’ dad might have gone on drunken rampages multiple times a week, but when he was sober he was a very similar version of the father he used to be. Gentle, regretful, even kind. He never said it out loud, but it was obvious that he hated himself for what he did to his son. Not enough to stop drinking, though. It was a sort of messed up emotional rollercoaster for Stiles. One minute he’d be walking on eggshells around the sheriff, and the next he’d be shooting reassuring smiles in his direction, as if it was the elder man who was being left with bruises. 

Most mornings now consisted of the two of them carefully dancing around one another in the kitchen while the coffee pot boiled. John often tried for casual conversation, a silent plea for forgiveness hidden beneath offhanded words, but it usually came out gruff with hangover. It was awkward to say the least, pretending like nothing had happened, even when the evidence was plastered all over Stiles’ pale skin. Hence, the teen had taken to bolting out the door before his dad had the chance to wake up; it was easier on the both of them.

Stiles strained his ears for any sound that would alert him to the sheriff’s presence and found his heart sinking when he heard the distinct clink of mugs coming from below him. 

Looks like I’ll be going to the coffee shop this morning, he thought, begrudgingly.

Without any more hesitance, he threw on some clothes, long sleeve flannel included, and headed for the front door with his backpack. He stopped for a moment when he reached it, listening to his father move around the kitchen and considered calling out. He wondered, not for the first time, how things had gotten so bad between them. The John Stilinski he had known growing up would have never let his son leave the house without hugging him, or at least saying goodbye. Stiles’ heart clenched in his chest as he turned the handle and left in silence.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Twenty minutes later he was sitting at a table, menu in hand, at Moe’s Diner, the closest breakfast place to Beacon Hills High. Stiles had eaten there dozens of times, mostly with his mom when she was still alive. He had detailed memories of sitting on her lap while he coloured furiously on the children’s menu and babbled about some stupid incident that he and Scott had gotten into. He could remember her listening with keen ears, a smile gracing her lips as she laughed along with his stories and shook her head at the boys’ antics. 

God, he missed her.

Stiles quietly shifted his attention to the side as the waitress approached, pen and paper in hand. She looked to be nineteen, maybe twenty, with long blonde hair that had been curled so that it fell in loose, golden waves. She smiled brightly at him, blue eyes shining far more intensely than the younger Stilinski thought normal for six o’clock in the morning.

“Hey there,” she said, a slight Jersey accent tinting her words. “What can I get for you?”

“Coffee please. Vanilla, if it’s not too much trouble,” Stiles replied.

So he had a sweet tooth, sue him. He deserved to have a little sugar running through his veins if he was expected to manage through the day.

The waitress scribbled down his order before turning her attention back to him. She cocked an eyebrow.

“What? Nothing to eat?” she asked.

“Nah. Not much of a breakfast person.”

She shrugged indifferently.

“Alright. Suit yourself, sweetheart.”

With a wink, she turned on her heel and swaggered back to the counter.

Stiles stared after her, smiling a little despite the headache that was steadily forming behind his eyes. Regardless of the fact that he’d had a pretty decent sleep for once, a phenomenon that only happened when he was cuddled up with another pack member, his whole body still felt like it was pulsing. A side effect of living in a constant state of anxiety, no doubt. Perpetual exhaustion, pain and paranoia; that was what his daily life had become. A never ending cycle of putting one foot in front of the other, while crossing his fingers in the hope that it would somehow get better. Evidently, it never did, and that was the real kicker of the whole thing.

Sighing, Stiles pulled his laptop from his bag and opened up the dreaded history essay. He had written a total of one page out of the mandatory five, and that was with double spacing and 12.5 font. He was praying that Kira’s dad would pass him with a C if he managed to pull off another two by the time 5th period rolled around, though that might require some margin stretching as well. But hey, not everyone could be straight A students like Lydia. Some idiots had to take one for the team and fail miserably, if only so others could feel better about their own grades.

Just when he thought he might go crosseyed from staring too hard at the screen, a familiar voice echoed through the diner, drawing Stiles’ attention away from his inevitable flop of an assignment.

At the counter stood a tall male with his back turned towards the booth. There was something about his posture that was simultaneously gentle and abrasive; the way his head was ducked mixed with how tense and obviously awkward he seemed to be. His grey rain jacket was covered in droplets and his hair, which was curly, was plastered to the nape of his neck and the tips of his red tinged ears. He had a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and what looked to be a bunch of rather damp papers in his hands. It took the teen a total of twenty seconds to realize that he was staring at soaking wet Isaac Lahey.

Stiles shook his head in disbelief. 

This guy is everywhere. 

He leaned backwards to catch more of the conversation that the werewolf was having with the pretty waitress from earlier. Her brow was creased in confusion as she listened to the boy fumble over his words.

“I, uh- well. I was wondering if I could possibly, give these to someone. The owner, maybe?” Isaac said, gesturing vaguely to the soggy papers.

“What are they, darling? They look like they’ve been through the wash a couple dozen times.”

“They- they’re resumes. My resume. I need- I mean I would like a job. Here. Preferably.”

Isaac looked downright mortified, which made Stiles chuckle.

Apparently, he was a little too loud because suddenly both the blondes’ eyes were set on him. He met the larger’s gaze, and offered a little wave in return. A few more sentences were exchanged between the two at the desk, followed by some shuffling, wherein the beta was relieved of his applications and handed a steaming coffee as a replacement. The girl then tipped her head in Stiles’ direction, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Isaac hovered for a moment, hesitance clear, before quietly walking over to were the human was sitting and placing the mug down on the table. 

“Are you stalking me now, Lahey?” Stiles asked.

He had to sit on his hands to stop them from shaking.

The wolf scoffed, but shook his head in reply.

“Get over yourself, Stilinski,” he said. “Like your worth following around.”

“What then? You always job hunt at seven am?”

“You always listen into other people’s conversations?”

“Only when they’re interesting.” 

Stiles looked down at the cup of coffee between them and blinked. It was vanilla, just like he’d ordered. The girl had made Isaac carry it over and he’d done it without complaining. A feeling close to fondness tugged at Stiles’ gut as he looked back up at his pack mate, who was focused on his shoes rather than the boy in front of him. 

“Dude, just sit down, okay? You don’t have to stand there. You’re making me uncomfortable.” 

Isaac mumbled out a ‘fuck you’, but took a seat anyway, sinking into the plushness of the chair’s cushion. A sigh escaped his lips, making him seem a thousand times younger than he really was and for a minute Stiles forgot that he was supposed to hate him. Had he really walked all the way from the Mccall residence, in the rain, at seven am, just to hand out resumes? The kid was lucky that werewolves didn’t get sick, or else he’d be in for one hell of a cold the following morning.

“So,” Stiles tried, pulling the hot drink towards him. “Why the sudden need for employment? You decide to save up for college or something?”

Isaac glanced up at him through pale lashes and shrugged his shoulders. He was so uneasy, it was off-putting. Usually, there would be far more bite to his words and a cockiness to his movements, but right now there was just jitteriness; he was distracted.

“Nah, college isn’t really my thing,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Never been too good at the whole school thing.”

Nerves. All nerves.

“You and me both buddy,” Stiles replied, trying to lighten the mood. 

The blond smirked in response, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He bit his lip.

“Melissa’s having trouble with bills. It was probably hard enough being a single mom when it was just Scott around, but now…”

Isaac trailed off, gaze growing distant and cloudy. His whole frame looked as if it were drowning in guilt. Stiles could see it in the way he slouched, in the bags under his eyes, in the way his fingers trembled slightly. It was an all too familiar state, one that the younger Stilinski had grown accustomed to swimming in himself. That of being a burden. 

Stiles swallowed thickly, attempting to dislodge the acrid taste that was slowly climbing up his throat. 

“Isaac,” he started, trying to figure out how to offer comfort without looking like he cared too much (a feat that was becoming increasingly harder to do).

The werewolf snapped back into reality before the other could finish. He shrugged again, mask quickly falling back into place.

“Forget it,” he said. 

His eyes flitted over to Stiles’ face, gaze darting from his lips to his nose, before sweeping across his cheeks. Stiles flinched the moment Isaac’s baby blues caught on the still fading bruise that splashed across one of them. 

The wound was healing at an agonizing pace, the downside of not having super powers like the rest of the pack, and though the sting was mostly gone, the yellowish impression was still laid bare for all to see. It was embarrassing to say the least; a reminder that, no matter how hard Stiles worked, or how many times he saved the puppies asses, he was still, completely, undeniably human. He couldn’t help but be bitter. 

When the scrutinization of his face didn’t cease, Stiles cleared his throat and looked at his watch. He was taken by surprise when he saw that it was breaching seven forty, and that school would be starting in twenty minutes. He groaned in frustration. The unfinished paper still sat opened on his desktop, a measly two paragraphs further than when he had started.

“Shit,” he breathed.

Isaac’s eyebrows creased as he stood up and rounded the table, peeking over the smaller boy’s shoulder. 

“Is that the essay for Yukimura’s class? Isn’t it supposed to be five pages, or something?” he asked.

Stiles ground his teeth, rubbing at his temples. This conversation was getting very annoying, very fast.

“I’m aware,” he spat. “And now, thanks to your wonderful presence, I’ve wasted an hour and I’m not even halfway done.”

Logically, he knew it wasn’t Isaac’s fault. It was his. He was the one who put off the stupid paper in the first place, but anxiety had a funny way of twisting his words so that all of them were directed outward. It was another quality on the never ending list of ‘Why Stiles Stilinski Hated Himself’, yet no amount of trying seemed to remedy it. 

Isaac’s expression turned sour and Stiles felt a pang of regret as he watched the beta recoil from his spot above him. He almost apologized, but stopped himself when he remembered that this was normal for them, that this was what they did. The two stuck knives into each other just so they could twist them, pushed until the line to be crossed was barely there at all. They didn’t consider feelings, and they didn’t say sorry.

“Well, maybe next time, tell me to fuck off right away instead of offering me a seat,” Isaac said, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning to leave.

Stiles growled in frustration as he watched the boy stride towards the diner door. Was he just going to walk all the way to the school now, angry and depressed? The journey was ten minutes by car, and though the wolf could probably just super speed his way over, it was still raining out. With a final huff, Stiles shoved his things back into his bag and raced after the retreating figure.

Stepping outside proved to be a far worse idea when he realized he didn’t have a jacket. The wind had picked up drastically and was blowing leaves around in mini tornados. He could feel the sharp bite of droplets against his skin, cutting through his shirt and chilling him straight to the bone. Isaac was a fast moving blur amidst the fog, his figure shifting in and out of view. Stiles had to squint through spray to catch a glimpse of him. Damn werewolves and their speedy skills.

When it became clear that there was no way he would catch up on foot, Stiles abandoned his course and made a run for the Jeep. After a few minutes of fumbling with the door, fingers awkwardly slipping on the handle which needed to be jimmied to open, he slid into the driver’s seat and sped after the quickly disappearing beta. 

It didn’t take long to match his pace once mechanical aid was involved. The vehicle careened into a crosswalk, effectively cutting off Isaac’s route and startling him into momentary idleness. Stiles rolled down the window.

“Get in, Lahey,” he said, shouting over the noise of the rain.

Isaac looked suspicious. His blue eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms, but didn’t budge.

“Why? I thought my presence was annoying,” he said. 

Stiles hands clenched on the wheel. 

It was, most of the time. He only really hung out with Isaac to appease Scott and his ridiculous pleading face, the one that even the hardest of people had trouble ignoring because it made him look like a literal puppy. Usually, Isaac was a pain in his ass, a source of negativity with an abundance of obnoxious scarves and unhelpful comments. He was frustratingly attractive and cocky and generally just a giant douche bag; but not always. Not now. 

Sometimes he was funny. Sometimes his wit was more on the side of charming instead of aggravating. Sometimes he was kind, or protective, or sweet, gave people lopsided smiles that made him seem young and playful, or laughed so hard that he snorted like a pig. 

Sometimes he made Stiles feel warm and fuzzy inside. 

And it was because of those “sometimes” that he couldn’t let the wolf keep walking.

“Look man,” Stiles said. “You are annoying and I spend a lot of time thinking about ways to strangle you with your stupid neck accessories, but I’m also about as annoying as they come, so I can’t really say anything. Besides, Scotty’d kill me if I let you trudge all the way to school in a thunderstorm. So can you please just get in the car?”

Isaac stared at him for a solid minute, frame unmoving, before finally abiding and clambering into the passenger’s seat. He didn’t look at Stiles, nor did he make any attempts at conversation, which the other boy took as a go to put the car back in gear. The silence that engulfed them was whole and uncomfortable. 

Stiles had never been good at keeping quiet, even when he was a kid. It’d always made him feel antsy, like there was something itching under his skin and if he didn’t say something, he’d explode. There were just too many thoughts in his head, begging to be voiced, too many actions, begging to be executed. It made it difficult to stay still.

When he was eight he had been suspended for two days due a disruption he caused during recess. A classmate had called Scott a loser after he’d failed to make it across the field during a game of soccer. Back then, he had still needed his inhaler and though he tried his best to run around with the other children, he couldn’t quite keep up. Stiles had held it together for all of five seconds before he’d started throwing retorts back at the boy and in the end, he’d punched him in the nose.

He was officially diagnosed with ADHD the following week.

The feeling never really went away. It was always there buzzing underneath his composure. He’d gotten better at hiding it, but in moments like this, it was so present that it made his head spin.

“You gonna give me the silent treatment forever?” he asked.

Isaac kept his gaze trained on the road.

“You’re worse than Derek,” he mumbled.

The blond barked out a laugh at that. 

“Please, no one’s better at brooding than Derek Hale.”

Stiles felt a smile tug at his lips. He risked a glance over at the other boy and found that he too was smirking a little. The tension eased ever so slightly. 

“I don’t know. I feel like Cora could really give him a run for his money.”

“Maybe it’s a family thing?”

“Oh most definitely. I mean, have you seen Peter? The lot of them are just eyebrows and angst, I swear to God.”

Isaac shot him that toothy grin of his as they pulled into the school parking lot. Stiles cut the engine and reached into the back seat for his bag, riffling through the numerous candy rappers and empty coffee cups. His car wasn’t much of an upgrade from his room, unfortunately. As he righted himself, he caught the beta’s eyes, which were glued once again to the blemish on his cheek. He felt his stomach turn.

“Stiles,” Isaac started. 

He worried his lip between his teeth.

“Isaac,” Stiles mimicked, face as blank as he could make it despite his slowly growing panic.

“That bruise, how did you get it?”

A few different options ran through the younger Stilinski’s head. He could lie, but with how close they were sitting there was no doubt that Isaac would be able to hear the tick in his heartbeat, but telling the truth wasn’t exactly something he could do either.

“I hit it,” he said.

“On what?”

“Why does it matter? I hit it, it hurt, it’s healing now. I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Stiles moved to open his door, but a hand grabbed his wrist. When he flinched against the fingers, they loosened so that the hold was barely there, but the touch didn’t disappear from his skin. Isaac looked up at him, face soft. There was understanding written in his expression and that alone made Stiles feel vaguely ill. 

“Please, I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. 

It wasn’t quite an admission, but it was more than he’d given anyone thus far. Why he was offering it to Isaac Lahey, he didn’t know. He’d most likely chalk it up to exhaustion later.

The werewolf let go of his arm and sighed, bringing a hand up to his damp curls. Even with a red nose and water-logged clothing, he still looked good. Stiles would be mad if he weren’t for the fact that his heart was doing a river dance inside his chest.

“We should get to class,” he said, bypassing the moment completely. “I don’t wanna be late again.”

Isaac nodded and exited the car without another word. 

Stiles stayed in his seat as he watched him walk across the lot, trying to get his breathing under control. The world felt scrambled, as if someone had put his life on a never-ending loop of the same awful moments and he wasn’t sure it was ever going to stop.


End file.
